The Best Weapon

by David Pilling

  Reality shimmered and flickered. The sky constricted, and the air itself seemed to compress, forcing an involuntary gasp into every throat, whether living or dead. Blood bubbled from the butchered corpses on the battlefield surrounding the fortress.

  The Devourer's presence filled the sky, like a bruise on flesh, disfiguring the very stuff of reality.

  Only now did the Lords become aware of their danger. But it was too late. The predator had found them, and now it would have them.

  Fulk and Naiyar instantly felt their bodies relax, as the influence of their fathers was removed.

  A shudder rippled through the fabric of space and time, and a noise like some unfathomably huge mouth grinding its meal to mush. The sound was briefly accompanied by shrill cries of agony as the Lords were devoured like sweetmeats.

  Fulk and Naiyar slumped to the floor, exhausted. They had fought savagely for what seemed like a lifetime, but their fatigue was due to their fighting not against one another, but against the hands that had controlled them.

  * * * *

  Kayla staggered into view, having escaped from her kin. The High Gods had gone, terrified by the approach of the Devourer, and fled in panic back to their own sphere.

  She ran to Naiyar, clutched his hand, and hauled him to his feet.

  Fulk began to heave himself up, groaning at the bruises and cuts he had suffered. He stood, rubbing the back of his head.

  "Our problems are not over," he said, shading his eyes to look up at the sky. He deliberately looked away from Naiyar and Kayla, uncomfortable with their intimacy.

  The shadow still hung over the world, fed but not sated. They gazed up at the blackish smear, billowing across the sky like a distended pupil in the epicentre of an all-encompassing eye, and waited.

  "I know what it wants," said Kayla, "the world itself, and the universe after that."

  "Is there nothing that will satisfy its hunger?" asked Naiyar.

  "Think of it like any animal. What does an animal need, most out of life?"

  "A mate," said Naiyar, glancing at Kayla, who reddened.

  "True, but that which hangs over us is the Devourer, and there will only ever be one," said Fulk, "we cannot understand its nature, except its desire to feed. We must offer it the promise of more food."

  "The human mind," said Kayla, "is a source of endlessly renewable energy. The Lords were the product of it, as am I. We could try and persuade the Devourer to feed off the energy produced by mankind, the tremendous mental power, much of which is still untapped. That prospect might satisfy it, for now. "

  The brothers saw the sense of this, and concentrated all their powers on communicating her idea to the Devourer.

  They bowed their heads, closed their eyes and concentrated. With a mutual effort of will they reached out, probing with their minds. Together they spoke to the monster.

  There were no words. Not as men would understand them.

  The effort of communicating with such a being drained the last vital effort from Naiyar and Fulk. They sank to the ground and lay as dead men.

  The shadow that hung over the earth gradually shrank and dissolved, until there was nothing but a clear blue morning sky.

  * * * *

  In the end, it was Fulk who watched Comrade Malet burn, rather than the other way round. Fulk was hard put to suppress a smile at the irony of this, even as he watched the body of his old drill instructor consigned to the flames. Malet's remains were wrapped in a Templar cloak, so that the War God would recognise the man's soul as one of his own.

  Malet's body was placed on the ground, head resting on his shield, side by side with the body of the late Grand Master. Sibrand's hands were uncovered and clasped the hilt of his broadsword, and he had his wolfskin cloak for a pillow. His chain of office, a heavy band of iron links with a pendant in the shape of a sword, now hung round Fulk's neck.

  "Father of Battles! As evening falls,

  Upon the silent sea,

  And darkness veils the mountain walls,

  We lift these souls to thee,

  From the sudden dangers of the night,

  And the desert's hidden harms,

  From plagues that waste, from swords that smite,

  Defend these, thy men-at-arms

  In desert march or battle's flame,

  In fortress and in field,

  Our war-cry is thy holy name,

  Thy joy our spur and shield,

  And if we falter, let thy power,

  The stern avenger be,

  And do not forget us in the hour,

  That we cease to think of thee!"

  The knights of the Temple solemnly chanted their ancient battle hymn as flaming torches were applied to the oil-soaked bodies of the dead Masters. The deep voices rolled across the plain outside the gates of Temple Rock, still strewn with corpses and stinking of blood and death.

  When it was done, and the half-melted scraps of the Grand Master's sword was all that remained among a smoking pile of ashes, Fulk turned to address his new followers.

  As he raised his hand for silence the assembled knights knelt before him with a rustling of cloaks and mail. The sight of that sea of bodies kneeling before him, all the respectful serious faces, made Fulk feel giddy with power. It was almost as wonderful a feeling as when the magic was surging through his veins, and in that moment he understood why his predecessor had chosen to exchange military glory for politics.

  "Comrades," he began hesitantly, and paused to clear his throat. "Comrades, the bodies of these brave and honoured men have been cleansed by fire, and their souls released. Let the fire also mark the ending of one way of life, and the beginning of a new."

  He stopped to gauge their reaction, but there was none. Most of the knights who knelt before him were young. Before the slaughter at Temple Rock half had been mere squires. There were barely four hundred Templars left, four hundred out of the two thousand that had sailed from the Winter Realm.

  Only a few of the surviving veterans had protested at Fulk's appointment, aghast at his youth, witch-like powers and empty eye-sockets, but their protests had gone no further than grumbling into their beards.

  Their nerve was shattered by the trials of a long campaign and its apocalyptic finale, and they were in no condition to oppose the enthusiastic youths who knew Fulk, had grown up alongside him, and wished to make him their chief.

  "This campaign is over," he went on, his voice growing in confidence, "and has brought us nothing but blood and shame and the deaths of too many of our people. But even this can be turned to our advantage. Comrades, the Twelfth Reconquest has been a lesson in humility for us, a punishment sent by Occido. He has observed our pride and arrogance, our cruelty and presumption, and decided to purge us with fire and sword.

  "Two-thirds of our fellow knights have been called to their account, but we have been allowed to live. Our purpose is to redeem the Temple, to go back to the Winter Realm and return to the old ways and values of knighthood. We shall not be given such an opportunity again. When next we fall from grace our god may destroy us, root and branch!"

  It was not a speech calculated to inspire wild cheering. Instead the assembled knights rose and placed their clenched fists against their hearts in the ancient salute of the Temple.

  In that moment Fulk No Man's Son became Grand Master in truth as well as in name.

  * * * *

  Naiyar stood on the battlements and watched the pale-skinned knights conduct their strange ceremony. Kayla stood at his shoulder, but her attention was not on the funeral. She gazed at the sky, now healed of the unearthly blemishes inflicted upon it the previous day.

  Naiyar felt as awkward as he had the day he had met her. He pretended to be solemnly watching the Templars, but in truth he was desperately trying to muster the courage, and find the words, to ask Kayla what she would do next. Would she simply vanish?

  Kayla laughed. He looked at her, surprised and embarrassed. She met his stare with her own piercing gaze.

 
; "I am bound to this world for as long as you live," she said.

  Naiyar, once again, was caught off guard, confused by her forthright manner and apparent knack of knowing exactly what he was thinking.

  "I would not leave you when it was time. I gave up my chance to go back."

  "Why?"

  "To stay with you." She put one hand on his cheek and kissed him.

  Naiyar knew then that whatever happened in the future, wherever he travelled, whatever he did, he was destined to spend the remainder of his time in the living world with Kayla.

  * * * *

  The Sharib and the Djanki had set up camp around the fortress. The buzz of several thousand drunken warriors singing and telling stories grew fainter as Colken made his way quietly down to a small boat moored in a secluded cove.

  As he reached the rugged path which led down the cliff, he turned and took one last look at his people. He took a deep breath and smiled to himself. Naiyar had kept his promise and told them Colken had been killed in battle.

  He scrambled down the slope and loaded his pack into the boat. Pushing the small craft into the calm water, he slipped away into the darkness.

  * * * *

  On the thin strip of beach below the looming cliffs of Temple Rock, Naiyar and Fulk sat cross-legged opposite each other and studied the rough map of the world that they had sketched in the sand.

  "I will go back to the Winter Realm with what is left of my people, and try to unify the land," said Fulk. "In my dreams I see that the line of our monarchs is broken, and that every man who can swing a sword and muster a few followers is trying to set himself up as a king. I must do my best to restore some kind of order to the place."

  Naiyar was more intent on studying his brother than the map. He didn't know what to make of his pale-skinned sibling, so different in thoughts and upbringing from himself. There was a chill about Fulk that Naiyar found unsettling. There was little between the two men save the unbreakable bond of kinship, and they were unlikely to ever be friends.

  "I will go back south, to my own lands," replied Naiyar, "though I have no grand plans beyond that. I unified the armies of two very different peoples, but that alliance is broken now the danger is passed. The Sharib will go their way, and my own people may reject me as a true Prophet."

  Fulk's head tilted up, and Naiyar felt himself being scrutinized by the mysterious inner vision that his brother had acquired. The thought of what had been done to Fulk, the awful savagery of having his eyes torn from their sockets, filled him with pity. But it was a pity he preferred not to express to Fulk, whose brutal god scorned any notion of compassion and demanded that his followers do the same. It was another barrier between them.

  "What will you do, then?" asked Fulk.

  Naiyar thought for a moment before answering. "I will find somewhere," he said vaguely, "where I can live in peace."

  "With Kayla?"

  "Yes. For as long as she will have me."

  They sat and talked for a while longer, until the words ran dry and there was nothing left but to watch the blood-red orb of the sun slowly rise over the careless sea.

  END

  Author bios

  Martin Bolton was born in Cornwall in 1979 and now lives and works in Bristol.

  Previously he concentrated on his artwork and writing small pieces of nonsense for the amusement of his friends, before deciding to do some serious creative writing. His first published work, a full length epic fantasy novel co-written with David Pilling, is The Best Weapon.

  His work is inspired by authors such as Robert E Howard, Joe Abercrombie, Bernard Cornwell and H.P. Lovecraft.

  David Pilling was born in Kent and whisked away to wild Wales when still a baby. After stints working in London and in Eastern Europe, he has now returned to the land of his upbringing to write, work and live.

  You can find us at our joint website:

  http://www.boltonandpilling.com/

  Or contact us direct at:

  bolton.sowhat@gmail.com/Davidpilling56@hotmail.com